Disbelief in Triumph
by Phantwo
Summary: As Erik dwells on the past, he comes to a sudden revelation at the evening's opera. Chapter four added after a few weeks, on the day I saw Phantom again!!
1. The Simple Answer

_**Author's Notes**: This is based on both the musical and the book, but primarily the musical. Certain facts come from the book. This is also the beginning of another long fic that I'm working on because my computer is in the repair shoppe, thus cutting off my access to _All the Point of View. _Enjoy!_

CHAPTER ONE  
_The Simple Answer_

_"I'd like to believe in something more than a dream..."_  
-- No Use for a Name, "Solitaire"

It seemed so hopeless in the beginning; how I had blown that up from hopeless to illogical belief in the impossible was still a question I had in my tortured mind. Agony coursed through me as I thought of her, my dear, sweet Christine, in the arms of a naïve and inexperienced boy, who would, most likely, abuse her in ways that might even be subtle or unseen. But I couldn't stand the idea that she would be mistreated even in vague and unclear ways, even if one of those ways was pampering her until she was spoiled and pompous. Even the idea that she would be brought into the world by that young boy, into his unwise hands to be prone to the dangers of the world, was abuse to my angel.

Oh, this pain was so acute! Why was I thinking about her again? All I felt when I thought of Christine was pain, pain so sharp and unbearable that I thought I might die of it someday! So why, why did I keep thinking of her?

_A simple question, Erik, deserves a simple answer,_ a voice in my head, which I had never heard speak before, replied. _You think of her because you love her._

I sighed, moving into the drawing room and sitting in my chair. The voice was right. No matter what she had done to me, no matter what pain I had endured for her, I still loved her. She was everything; I kept thinking of her because she had been my salvation, saved me from becoming insane. I have no doubts now that were it not for my beloved, I would be nothing but an animal in the body of a . . . or, actually, I shall leave it at _animal._

I looked about into the darkness of my house, which had always been comforting. But it wasn't anymore. Nothing seemed to provide comfort anymore. Ever since she left, I had never been content, not even with my music. All my compositions seemed sour, all my previous comforts seemed obsolete and oddly boring.

Absently I wondered what opera was playing that night. Perhaps I could go and pull my mind off the pain. It was so quiet in my house; and yet, I couldn't escape the silence. I couldn't play and I couldn't sing—everything was so _unsatisfying_ now! I had the ability to do so much, but what of use are abilities if there is no heart behind them?

Slowly I rose from my chair, pacing about the room at a deliberate pace. Images of Christine kept flashing through my mind, and I smiled sadly in spite of myself. Perhaps, just perhaps, she might come back. . . .

Soon after I thought them, I banished those foolish thoughts. Of _course_ she would come back! And my name is Raoul de Chagny!

Then for a moment I thought about that. I might like my name to be Raoul de Chagny. I might like to be handsome and rich. I might like to be a Vicomte. And I might like to be an idiot.

But after all, if being an idiot and being handsome would let me win the heart of Christine, how bad could it really be?

It would not do to dwell on these thoughts. Reluctantly I picked up my cloak, walked over to my front door and left the house, knowing that if the opera this evening was _Faust,_ _Il Muto,_ or _Hannibal_ that I would be going back home.

There was the boat, swaying slightly on the soft current of the inky black waters. This lake had been my own for years; for some reason, that particular fact stood out in my mind as I climbed into it and pushed off the dock. The candles were almost invisible in the conspicuously high amount of mist on the lake, providing a mysterious atmosphere that suited my thoughts perfectly.

My melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the shudder of the boat hitting the opposite bank's dock. _Oh, I'm here already?_

It didn't really matter. I got out of the boat very slowly, trying not to think about _her._ I was so consumed in thought that I hardly realised that I had made my way up to the top of the hundreds of stairs in the Opéra.

Again, the thought ran through my troubled mind. _I'm here already?_

I hadn't been up here in so long. It had been months since I had ventured to go to the Opéra. I had only left my house in those past months for necessary parts of life—primarily food, but in very small quantities; I hate eating. I hadn't even a clue who the new tenor was, or if there even was one. No doubt that the absence of a principal tenor was better than Piangi. I hardly believed it possible for there to be a worse tenor than he.

It was a slow walk to my box. I had no doubts that it would be sold, seeing as I'd made no comment to the managers or alerted them of my presence for the past five months. But to my great astonishment, as I settled myself in the hollow column of Box Five, I discovered it wasn't. After I did get settled, I began to listen to the words being sung.

"We never said our love was evergreen  
Or as unchanging as the sea,  
But please promise me that sometime  
You will think of me. . . "

As if an electrical current had sparked through me, I was instantly rigid and wired. This was perturbing, completely unnerving, and yet the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. . . .

Christine!


	2. My Angel, Christine Daaé

**CHAPTER TWO  
_My Angel, Christine Daaé_**

_Christine, my love, Paris now will worship you...  
_—Iced Earth, "The Phantom Opera Ghost"

I could not believe my ears . . . _she _was singing the aria, not some pompous and untalented cow. That was Christine's beautiful voice I could hear creating such an exquisite sound.

I wondered if my ears were deceiving me and looked out of my column at the stage—and there she was, singing the aria with her hands extended toward the audience, and as I surveyed the patrons, I could see they were as pleased as I was with her performance. All those lessons had made her strong and talented; whatever the price was for her to be here tonight, it was certainly worth it now, to hear her voice reaching out to me as if I were the only one attending the theatre. Oh, just seeing her disoriented me slightly; her beauty was unchanged, her soft blonde hair cascading down her back and her pretty blue eyes shining in the light of the theatre. I closed my eyes, trembling slightly. I hadn't forgotten her breathtaking countenance, but I had been slightly out of practice at receiving it. Seeing her again with my own eyes and not my mind's eye was so different . . . these past five months, I realised quickly, had been torture far greater than I would ever be able to endure again, now that I had seen her once again.

_Christine. . . ._

When the song was over, I did not realise it. Long after the climax of Christine's aria, I sat in my box, leaning against the wall with my eyes shut. Perhaps, just perhaps. . . .

_No!_ The logical side of my mind countered the hopeful side. I let off a sigh, wishing desperately that logic and hope could be on the same side of my mind instead of always choosing separate paths and causing inner debates whose answers were apparently never right.

But perhaps, just perhaps, she would be glad to see me . . . if she were performing at the Opéra, it would mean _something_ had happened between herself and _it–_er, Raoul–to let her stay. _Perhaps she has left him for good!_ The dreaming side of my mind was raising foolish hopes and notions, but I found them hard to push away. They were so entertaining to humour, to believe in them even for but a minute of ridiculous joy.

_How would you know,_ suddenly the dreamer in me said to the logic, _how Christine will receive you if you don't even try?_

My logic gave in, and I knew immediately that once the performance was over, I would be back behind her dressing room mirror to seek answers to my questions and hope she would receive me with some joy–even just a flicker of happiness at hearing my voice would do, although I sincerely wished she would give up our past, take hold of my hand, and follow me to my house where we could ride the wave of music until our souls were content–and then we could continue what had been abruptly stopped with the coming of. . . .

_Erik, shut up,_ I reprimanded myself. _You are allowing yourself to hope._ I sighed, knowing the truth behind that statement. It was a sad thing, really; everyone is allowed to have hopes and dreams, except for Erik! What crime had I originally committed to deserve having the world forbidden to me?

Oh yes, I had forgotten it. It was the crime I was born guilty of—the crime of being ugly. In this materialistic world, being as ugly as I am created an invisible barrier between the respectable and the despicable. I was in the latter group. And no man—no genius, no prodigy, not a man at all—in the latter group could make his way into the former. And the man in the latter group is denied everything, from the love of his very own mother to the love of his life. And I am denied everything, for I am one of those despicable for his ugly face. Mankind is cruel.

Then again, I knew that, and no one in this world needs a reminder of that, I don't think.

But the crowd began to cheer, pulling me out of a rather unpleasant reverie. I glanced out and saw Christine taking her bows and exiting the stage. Being the fool I was, I took off running suddenly to meet her behind her mirror. Thankfully there was nobody in Box Five, or else I would have given away my presence as obviously as if I'd left a note declaring that I was sitting in Box Five. Ah, well.

The beautiful woman was sitting in her dressing room when I arrived, brushing her hair and sighing. She stared into the mirror, let out a low groan, and looked at a piece of paper sitting on her dresser. Picking up a pen, she began to write on the paper for a few minutes, and then she let off another groan. She sat up, and I caught sight of her face. . . . She looked so beautiful, yet so pitiful, with a sad expression on it that made my heart yearn for her—I wanted to reach out and touch her, console her, tell her that she would be all right and whatever it was that saddened her did not matter in her light, for angels should not have any trouble and the demon would come to wash the troubles away.

I did not realise that I had acted with my actions until I heard my hand touch the mirror with rather more force than I should have. There was an audible _thump_, causing me to gasp suddenly and wince—and Christine to glance up at the mirror with surprise. I could not breathe. I could not speak. She was getting up. She was coming over to the mirror . . . she still remembered how to—

The mirror spun around, and I found myself facing Christine without a sheet of glass to separate us.

"Erik?"

_To be continued . . . whenever Phantwo can continue!_


	3. In Return...

A/N: Unfortunately, I'm pretty burnt out on writing right now. I do it so much—I've got so much time on my hands these days that I spend all day writing. Be it fiction, music, lyrics or poetry, I'm writing all day or reading. My fountain of ideas has basically run dry. This is the only story out of _Chronicles of Immortality _(COI)_, How We Won the War, All the Point of View, _and numerous short stories that I feel inspired to write at all. I began another one recently—an espionage story this time, a nice escape from my ever-angsty romances—that burnt out at paragraph 3. This afternoon I finished reading a book and began reading another, then just fell asleep on the couch out of boredom. I got up and dragged myself to my computer and then attempted to continue in one of my thousands of short stories and found I was completely out of any inspiration whatsoever. (By the way, this author's note will probably end up longer than the chapter... and it'll most certainly be more of a story than this phic ever will be... heh.) This story I managed to get a little further, and I'll probably outline the whole plot while I'm away at the studio next week (recording a CD! WHOO!) so the story will—hopefully—be much more engaging afterwards. I really need to distance myself from my writing right now, so this story will probably be a little slow in coming. . . . Sorry.

**CHAPTER THREE  
_In Return... _**

_How does it feel to be one of the beautiful people?  
_—No Use for a Name, "Angela"

I could think of nothing more intelligent to do than stare at her for a second; then I realised she was probably waiting for an explanation of my presence. Unfortunately, I had none. Staring at her like this was probably not going to help, either. I fumbled for something to say—"Hello, Christine, I heard you singing and decided to drop by for a friendly visit!"—and all I could manage was to work my mouth like a fool and have no sound come out but, "Uhh . . ."

She knelt down and looked at me with concern and something else I could not identify in her blue eyes. "What on earth are you doing here, Erik?" she whispered. "I thought you were—"

Feeling discomfort like this was something I was not accustomed to. I've always been used to being collected, calm, in control, on top. . . . However, I could not gain the upper hand without an excuse, and I lacked one utterly. I had to look away from her to clear my head.

"I'm afraid I lack any adequate explanation, Mademoiselle Daaé—or, excuse me, is it Madame de Chagny now?" I finally managed to say in a remarkably level voice. She shook her head and stared straight at me.

"No. But—what are you doing here, Erik?"

I shrugged. "I'm afraid I must ask the same question. I myself have no logical explanation for my presence. You, however—you must have some reason for being here. Lovely performance, might I add."

She was speechless for a second, then stuttered, "Um, thank you. I—well, Erik, I thought you were . . . you were . . ."

I raised an eyebrow. "You thought I was, I was . . . ?"

"Dead."

I couldn't help but laugh harshly. "Well! I appear to be standing in front of you, so I suppose that theory is incorrect. However, I think I've been dead for a few years. Alas, fate seems not to accept that a dead soul trapped inside a living body should have ceased to live the day the soul died." _Which,_ I continued mentally, _meant I should, theoretically, have been still-born._

She was still confused. "But you're not. How?"

"And you're not married to the Vicomte, apparently. How?"

Turning around and shaking her head, she stammered, "Oh, Erik. . . . Why did you come?"

"Only to compliment you on a job well done, my dear. And why did you come here?"

She sighed and hesitated. After a long silence, she turned back to face me and took a deep breath before she began to speak. As she did so, I noticed her beautiful blue eyes filling with tears. She forced herself to say—as it sounded rather as though she was struggling with fierce emotion I was incapable of seeing—in a nearly-level voice, "Why am I not married to Raoul? Erik, did you not hear that Raoul was killed months ago?"

_"What?"_

--

To be continued (if readers so desire)...

Advice needed/desired! Please review if you're feeling kind! Thank you!


	4. Bitterness Endures

A/N: I'm not trying to be too cliché in Christine's reason for coming back to the Opéra. Unfortunately, I started this story more as a sketch rather than a full-blown story, and I'm writing this chapter the same night I finished chapter three and I couldn't make it too non-cliché. But I decided _not_ to use that "Raoul goes evil" plot, and I decided to give Erik a little bit of compassion in this chapter (it may seem a little out of character but I wanted Erik to learn something). Anyway, I hope you enjoy. (Still burnt out. Hopefully next week will bring better writing days. We'll see.)

OH YEAH! I SAW PHANTOM TODAY! (August 11, 2002) WHOOO!!!!!! It was AWESOME! Ted Keegan played the Phantom and he was very good. ^_^ I had a great time. Too bad it was matinée... And I had not-so-great seats because the seats we were supposed to be getting were second-hand and the person forgot our order. That sucked. But oh well, I got to see it anyway, and it was awesome! I wish I could see it again without it being in another four years. . . . -_- Alas, I might see it again next summer, and this time we'll get good seats if indeed it happens. (Mum suggested we see it again, so . . . we might get to!)

**CHAPTER FOUR  
_Bitterness Endures_**

_"Leaving flowers on your grave, show that I still care. But black roses and hail Marys can't bring back what's taken from me...  
_—The Offspring, "Gone Away"

Raoul was dead?

Christine hadn't married him?

How?

That question . . . _how?_ How had he died? How had she managed to come back to Paris? How had she managed to snare a position as the lead in the opera? How had she created a semblance of a life without someone by her side? _How?_

Christine wasn't the independent type—she had always been hopelessly in need of a man beside her to protect her, to shield her from the real world. And yet it appeared to me now she had somehow—_somehow!—_been able to fend for herself, if only just to win a role in the opera. But she had said Raoul was killed months ago! How long ago? What had she done afterwards? Who had taken care of her? How had she made it?

How did Raoul die?

I looked into her face with my mouth hanging open. I was at a real loss for words. Once again, I had lost the upper hand and was now left without anything to say or do, and I was very uncomfortable with it. I hated this feeling! I absolutely hated it! Yet I could think of absolutely nothing to break the tense silence.

Finally Christine spoke up. "It . . . it was about four months ago. . . . He was riding by a river in the country and something scared his horse. He was thrown into the water. Apparently his head struck a rock and he drowned."

I seemed to recall that Raoul had gone to naval academy, so the notion that he'd have drowned seemed slightly silly, even foolish. But apparently it had happened, and I hardly thought it fit to laugh when she was so obviously hurt by remembering it. Still, I felt overjoyed (and a little guilty for feeling overjoyed) that this had happened. For a sweet moment my dreamer's voice screamed, _Even the best are not immortal!_ It was encouraging to realise that. In this overall hopeless life, a flicker of hope is pleasant, even exciting! But as usual, hope burned out after about two seconds, and I knew if I didn't keep my mouth shut, I'd let my cynicism overtake me and I would say something cruel and hurtful to this woman whom I loved with all my soul.

Thankfully, I managed to keep my mouth shut, and Christine managed to continue in a very stiff voice, as if she'd rehearsed this line a hundred times. "I had to come here. I have nowhere else to go and no one to return to. Singing was the only thing I knew of that I could do on my own."

"Thanks to me." There was a long pause, and then I continued. "After all, you seem somewhat, ah, incapable of doing things on your own, hmm?"

She lowered her eyes guiltily, as if aware of her inadequacies and humiliated by them. I certainly was aware of and humiliated by mine. After another silence, she mumbled, "It was . . . hard for me, Erik."

"Losing Raoul?"

"Losing my father."

"Oh." _That_ I knew. "Isn't that why I decided to become your angel in the first place, my dear?"

She shrugged weakly and did not respond. Glancing anxiously at the papers on her dressing table, she looked at me and sighed wearily, "I need to return to my work, Erik. . . ."

I nodded. "Very well. And congratulations, my dear—you were fabulous out there."

"Thank you, Angel."

I bowed to her, closed the mirror-door and began the descent to the hell I knew as home slowly, feeling both euphoric and bleak at the same time. Christine had returned and I could enjoy her performance nightly—that was cause for euphoria, wasn't it? We'd had an easy conversation (perhaps _easy_ is an exaggeration) and she wasn't married to the Victome. That was damn good cause for euphoria, wasn't it?

Yet, for probably the first time in my life, I felt real guilt as I walked away. Raoul was dead. Christine was alone, with _no_ one to take care of her. Even a boy who'd probably do the whole thing wrong was better than no one. And as I trudged to my underground lair, down all these flights of stairs, I began to wonder if it was really so bad that Christine had chosen him in the first place.

She needed so much care, for she was all but helpless by herself. I began to question if I could have given her all she needed. Oh, I was wealthy, yes; I loved her, yes; but could I have been good enough to be a husband to her? I didn't have any idea what I was supposed to do to play that role. Heavens, before that last night that Christine had left, I'd never even been kissed! Before I'd met Christine, I hadn't even known how to love! So how could I have been her caretaker, her lover, her protector effectively?

And yet I knew I needed it. I needed someone to love now . . . I needed someone to love me . . . it seemed to me that I deserved somebody's love for putting up with the world's hatred and cruelty for this long! I needed it and I deserved it. But if I couldn't have Christine, did it matter?

I could have had her, however, if that boy hadn't come into the picture. I hated that boy. I hated him so much. I hated him for interfering. I hated him for taking Christine from me. I hated him for everything he'd ever done. And now I hated him for dying and leaving Christine alone.

As I looked over it all, I realised I'd never forgive him. Even as he lay in his grave, I would continue to hate him. If he were going to steal Christine from me, couldn't he have at least finished the job and taken care of her instead of dying and leaving one less person for her? I knew I could never even begin to forgive him.

I would always hate him, for bitterness endures.

But what had Christine said as we parted? _"Thank you, Angel."_

_Angel?_

Suddenly I had an idea...

_To be continued...___


End file.
